


royalty

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Non-Graphic Violence, Normal Horoscopes, Possible Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: there are thirteen rulers. here are thirteen snapshots. glimpses.





	royalty

**Author's Note:**

> ...i might do more of these. it's a good post, y'all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a queen of thieves. she sits sideways on the throne, idly twirling the crown around her finger.

She doesn't have a name. Or, she has many names. Or, she has one name. It all depends on the day. It all depends on who you ask.

Her queendom is vast and sprawling, encompassing any other little dominions her equals may have. Equals. It's a funny word; it hasn't applied to anyone in so long. Even the idea of it, even the brief impression of it, ricocheting sidelong against her attention, is alien. She is a thief queen, queen of thieves and thief of power. She sits sideways on her throne and twirls her stolen crown around and around her finger. Long, delicate. Alien.

She is, one supposes, beautiful. It is so much easier to take and take and _take_ when you are beautiful. People will not mind being robbed if you are beautiful. It is yet another mask, yet another tool in her arsenal. Like so many lockpicks, like so many quick fingers, like so many inattentive eyes is her beauty useful. She is long-limbed, lithe and graceful in a way that might remind one of a particularly savage swan. Or a particularly courteous cobra. 

Vicious and violent, but lovely despite it. Cruel and corrupt, and lovely because of it. It all depends on the day. It all depends on who you ask.

Her silver circlet glints in the stolen starlight as the gods' Chosen Few enter her throne room. _Relent,_ hisses one of them. She doesn't move, feels the weight of her stolen diadem circle around and around her finger. Like so much shattered glass, a Chosen One summons a wreath of flame around his fingers. Short, blunt, familiar fingers. 

There is something so familiar about these Chosen Few. Something so common. Maybe it is because she has had only herself for company in this room, on this throne. 

Maybe it is because the gods are getting sloppy. Choosing whoever they see, choosing whoever will do the job fastest. Choosing poorly. She twirls the crown around and around her finger. Long, delicate. Alien. She doesn't even look up as the flames are directed to her. She just tosses her crown into the air and catches it on her head, twin knives picking out joints in the gods' Chosen Few and pinning them open, like so many butterflies.

She'll have them pressed, later. Behind glass, until their blood runs black with age and suffocation. She is, one supposes, an immoral person. It has never bothered her. A thief queen. A queen of thieves, a thief of power. The gods are more powerful than she is; if they want something done, they can come and do it themselves. Until then, the cowards can send a many Chosen Few as they like.

Flames, like so much shattered glass, are borne from a deep-seated circumstance or from a superficial rage. Flames, like so much shattered glass, harbour themselves no wish to inflict calamity upon others. Flames, like so much shattered glass, vanish from her sight with barely any effort. Her courtesans, her consorts, her nobles, her officers clear away her butterflies.

They are not breathing, like so many pinned beauties there only for display.

She has no name; she has a vast and sprawling kingdom, whether or not her equals know it. She has many names, each stolen from someone unimportant and unliving. She has one name, given to her by her enemies and allies alike.

It shan't be said.

Like so many stolen jewels, her consort's eyes glitter. _My Queen,_ she whispers, _shall I run you a bath?_ All the wealth in the world is not enough for this girl, for this woman with malicious plans glimmering just behind her onyx eyes. She would slip poison into the bathwater, to see her Queen scream. She would stand over her bath and smile sweetly, eyes glittering like so many taken treasures as her Queen fights for even one breath.

 _No,_ answers her Queen, _you shall run to my bedroom._ Her consort smirks, ducks her head low and bows even lower. Hiding her wicked eyes behind shimmering obsidian hair, brushed a thousand strokes a day, shining in the reflection of her Queen's stolen starlight. Off she runs, and her Queen can only smile, love and hate playing at the corner of her lips.

What a clever girl.  
What a cruel girl.  
She will be picked open and eaten alive. 

The thief queen rises from her throne, silver stolen diadem glinting in silver stolen starlight. How will her consort kill her tonight? How will she deflect the blame to a courtesan innocent of this crime, but guilty of many more? The thief queen will steal her consort a circlet of brilliant gold, inlaid with any jewels the woman desires.

The thief queen will take a killer for her wife.

What a sweet death.

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @roswell-the-wrongdoer and the blog i got this from is @normal-horoscopes go check them out their posts are all excellently written and delightfully unsettling


End file.
